by Barbara Bard
“I look forward to it, my Lord.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Lord Flynn's mouth. He nodded, then spun on his heels and walked away. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief, pressing the letter into her bosom.
She had to escape soon. The longer she remained in the palace the more likely it was that the truth would be revealed. If she ever got to the wedding she just might faint with anxiety.
Sarah walked more carefully for fear of tripping up again. The sooner the letter was on its way the better. She went to the traveling merchant and handed her letter over to him. He was a young man, with a yellow beard, and he looked at Sarah in a strange way. He gave her a toothy smile, but did not say anything, and slipped the letter into his cloak.
The letter was out of her hands now. She merely hoped that Lord Brambly would read it and come to her rescue.
With only a few hours until dinner remaining, Sarah tried to read but found it most difficult to keep her mind focused on the words in front of her. She kept thinking about the traveling merchant and if he would reach Lord Brambly safely, and then if Lord Charles would actually be willing to come to her aid.
Do you want to know what’s going to happen?
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Highlander’s Honor – Preview
Chapter 1
Dawn tinged the eastern horizon a bright pink, perhaps hinting at the warm day ahead. Birds chirped from their thickets, rousing with the new sun, darting from the branches like tiny arrows as the cantering horse disturbed them into flight. The mount’s grey legs sent pollen from the purple heather up into the light breeze as it crossed the moors of northern England. The horse’s rider expertly guided it across a shallow streamlet, leaped a low stone wall and galloped up the hill.
Lady Catrin Waterford, daughter of the Duke of Whitewood, reined in at the top of the hill to glance back. Her escort, two of her father’s retainers, loped in her wake. But as she demanded they ride a distance behind her to give her some semblance of privacy, they rode nearly a half mile to her rear. Chirruping to her mount, she cantered down the far side just as the sun broke over the horizon.
She took her left hand off her reins long enough to cast back the hood of the light cloak she wore against the early dawn’s damp chill. Catrin gazed at the sunrise, then closed her eyes and tilted her head back to further feel the strong horse beneath her, the new sun’s rays kissing her cheeks. Unfettered, her wild mane of rich, auburn hair flew behind her like a war banner.
Her gelding stumbled, forcing her to open her eyes.
Catrin gasped, her heart hammering in her chest.
No fewer than a dozen riders raced toward her, their horses leaping thickets and dodging rocks. Not highwaymen. She observed the familiar brigandines, the heavy two-handed swords, the stern faces. Scots. Armed with bows as well as swords, they called to one another in that despicable dialect of the Scottish Highlands. Fear and anger rushed through her as she hauled on her reins, forcing the grey to slide forward under his momentum, his rear quarters slung low.
Wheeling the gelding around, Catrin plunged her heels into his sides, urging him into a full run. Racing up the low-lying hill, she glanced back once, finding the horsemen had spread out in case she changed directions, and closing the distance. Crossing the hill she had just descended, Catrin discovered to her horror that five more Scots dashed in to cut her off from her escape. And her guards.
“Eh, lads,” called one, a tall red-haired man who gestured to the north. “Coot ‘er off now.”
Riders from behind her swept up and to her left, forcing her toward the right, into the direction of the rider who yelled. Even as he closed the distance between them, his red hair flying in the wind, Catrin saw her opening. If she could just nip past him before he reached that rock . . . . Pushing her gelding harder, she raced the Scot, shooting glances at him even as she screamed for help from her guards.
She was seconds too late.
The red-haired horseman cut in front of her, forcing her gelding to rear or be forced to slam headlong into his black. Catrin grasped for the pommel of her saddle as the grey’s hooves climbed high and missed her grip. Unbalanced, she toppled backward over the cantle to hit the ground hard. Her breath knocked from her lungs, she had no air to scream as the Scotsman flung himself from his saddle even before his horse came to a trampling halt.
The others circled around her, trotting their horses in a huge milling group, giving her no chance to rise to her feet and run. Seizing her by her arms, the Scot stood her upright, then spun her around. Catrin, despite her inability to draw breath, fought him, trying to pull her hands loose, to kick him, to bite. Her strength was no match for his, and he bound her hands tightly behind her with a tough leather strap.
“Gae, lads, chase the lassie’s men oof.”
Six of his men, if he was indeed the leader of this band, immediately split away from the group and galloped westward. Catrin knew her father’s men at arms stood no chance to free her, as grossly outnumbered as they were. Hope of rescue or escape from these foul men died as she fought now to get her breath back.
Hope perhaps had died within her, but her defiance had not. As the leader turned her to face him, she spat in his face, her spittle smacking him square on his hawk-like nose. Glaring at him, still unable to speak, she expected him to backhand her for her insult. Instead, he grinned.
“Ach, lads, seems we hae here a wee spitfire of a lass,” he said, arming her defiance from his face with his sleeve. “I dinnae expect a great noble lady tae fight so.”
She studied him as she waited for her breath to return. Tall, he was, with broad shoulders, and lean narrow hips. A scar ran from the corner of his left eye down his cheek, yet she never thought she had seen a comelier man. His hazel-green eyes stared at her with a hint of admiration, framed by long dark lashes. His smiling lips appeared full and ripe for kissing, and his teeth were pure white, not brown as so many peoples were.
Slowly, air seeped back into Catrin’s lungs. “Let me go,” she gritted. “Or I will have you drawn and quartered by sunset.”
“Ye willnae be drawin’ nor quarterin’ nobody, Me Lady Catrin,” he replied easily. “Fer ye be halfway to me castle in the Highlands by sunset.”
Catrin stiffened. “You know who I am?”
“Ach. Course, Me Lady. Dae ye ken who I be?”
“How can I? I have never seen you before in my life.”
“Then let me introduce meself.” He grinned, his merry hazel-green eyes dancing in his lean face. “I be Ranulf Thorburn, heir to the Laird of Clan Thorburn.”
She physically felt the blood drain from her flesh. A chill crept into her body, the air left her lungs again in a short whoosh. Fear, no, terror swept through her as she recognized the name. Clan Thorburn. Kyle Thorburn.
She did not realize she spoke the name aloud until Ranulf nodded. “Aye, Me Lady. Your da did murder me elder brother.”
“Liar!” she screamed. “Your brother murdered mine and was hanged for it.”
“Me brother dinnae slay yers,” he snapped, his scarred face now suffused with rage. “He be innocent, so he were. Yer da murdered him withoot proof, so he did.”
“So, you are going to kill me in revenge?”
“Revenge, aye,” he breathed. “Tae kill ye, I dinnae ken yet.”
“If you kill me, you will be hanged just like your brother.”
“’Ere in Sassenach lands, perhaps,” he answered, his anger seemingly gone as fast as it appeared. “Nae north of the border. That be where we be heeded now.”
Before Catrin had a chance to answer, his six men returned, trotting their horses into the midst of the others. “The Sassenach do run oof, Ranulf,” one of them said. “Nae doubt they run fer home tae gather more tae hunt us doon.”
“Aye, lads, we be goin’,” Ranulf said, seizing her by the arm and dragging her toward her grey gelding. The horse now stood quietly with his reins in a clansma
n’s fist. With all the effort he might display in lifting a child, Ranulf picked her up by her waist and planted her in her saddle. Despite the awkwardness of having her hands tied behind her back, she slipped her feet into her stirrups and balanced herself as he took her reins.
Leading the grey to his own black, who stood quietly grazing nearby, Ranulf vaulted into his saddle and grinned down at her. “Now, dinnae be thinkin’ tae throw yerself off tae escape, fer then I be tyin’ ye cross yer saddle, lass. I wouldnae wish yer pretty face damaged neither.”
Nudging his horse into first a trot, and then a rolling canter, Ranulf led his band north across the moors, Catrin snugged close beside him. Fear still rampaged through her blood, but she kept it under strict control. If he wanted her dead, he would not have taken the trouble to kidnap her and take her into Scotland.
“How did you know where I was?” she asked.
Ranulf grinned. “Ach, lass, that be tae easy. Ye ride every mornin’, ye dae. Always keepin’ yer lads behind. Ye dinnae want tae be taken, lass, dinnae keep a routine.”
“I will remember that in the future,” Catrin replied dryly.
Chuckling, he winked at her. “Ye be a fine, brave lass, ye are, Me Lady. A warrior.”
“Free my hands and give me a bow,” she replied. “I’ll then shoot out your left eye from three hundred yards.”
“Ye be that good?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Beauty wi’ the skills of a warrior,” he said, admiring. “I dae be impressed, meself. I swear, I ne’er seen eyes like yers before. The color of honey, they are.”
Catrin shrugged. “They are eyes like any other.”
He glanced up and down her body. “Skin like fine porcelain, slender as a whip.” His gaze traveled over her hair, blowing into tangles from the wind created by their speed. “Ach, Me Lady, I dae swear ye bewitched me wi’ yer beauty. I wid find it most difficult tae slit yer throat shood I decide tae.”
“I am certain that’s not difficult for you at all, sir,” Catrin replied. “As your murdering brother’s blood runs in your veins as well.”
Though she expected a burst of rage from him and braced herself, she felt almost disappointed when he simply eyed her sidelong and shrugged.
“Jist as yer murdering da’s blood run in ye.”
Tempted to ask him how he can be so certain his brother did not murder hers, Catrin kept her mouth closed and gazed around her. The sun rose higher in the sky, warming the morning as larks and sparrows, disturbed from their nests in the thickets, flew up with frightened chirps. A doe bounded away from their menace on stick-like legs and light hooves as Ranulf’s men behind her spoke of chasing it.
Walking and trotting their horses by turn to spare them, they traveled onward, ever north, avoiding villages and people. Catrin knew they were still on her father’s lands but could think of no means of escaping Ranulf and his men. Her father, the powerful Duke of Whitewood, no doubt knew by now she had been taken by brigands and would even now be on her trail with a hundred men at arms.
Yet, despite this knowledge, her heart sank. Her father was not a robust or well man. He could not ride far, and whenever he was forced to travel, would take a carriage in very slow stages. While he may force himself to hunt down his daughter’s kidnappers, he could not cross the border into Scotland without risking a war. Tension between the two countries remained high, and it would take the mere tiniest of sparks to ignite the flames of war.
“Donal.” Ranulf stood in his stirrups and half turned, shouting down the line of men. “Ride back, watch our back trail.”
Sitting in his saddle again, he grinned at Catrin. “Wouldnae want yer da sneakin’ up behin’ us, now wid we?”
“No, of course not,” she replied, her tone caustic. “You might get hanged like your brother.”
Once again, she underestimated his sense of humor. He chuckled, refusing to rise to her bait. She studied him unobtrusively, wondering what sort of man permits himself to be insulted without becoming angry. One who knows what insults are deadly and those that are not. For the first time since her brother was slain, she considered what it meant for Kyle Thorburn’s family when he died.
“What do you know of what happened that day?” she asked Ranulf.
His brow lifted as he glanced at her. “When yer brother died?”
“Yes.”
Before he could answer, the thunder of hooves sounded from behind them. “Ranulf! Duke’s men! A few miles behin’.”
Catrin smiled. “Did I not tell you so? Perhaps if you give up now, my father will be merciful.”
“Ach, lass,” Ranulf said, putting spurs to his black horse, “yer da is nae match fer our coursers.”
Striking a fast gallop over the moors, crossing small streams, Ranulf led his band, keeping Catrin’s horse tight to his leg, further and further north. Despair filled her as she twisted in the saddle, trying to see her father’s men riding hard behind. If we cross into Scotland, I am dead. She had heard the tales and legends of what the Scots did to their captives: torture, rape, a slow and agonizing death awaited those unlucky enough to fall into the hands of these savages. While Ranulf seemed more civilized, she knew his need for revenge would not rest until he slaked his thirst in her blood.
Chapter 2
Exhausted, sweating, his aching joints unable to keep him upright in the saddle, Henry Waterford, the third Duke of Whitewood, reined in his horse at the top of a hill. His men at arms also halted their horses, a long line of mounted men trailing behind. Panting, he waved for the commander of his soldiers, Sir Alban Howard, to ride up beside him.
“Your Grace,” Sir Alban said, bowing in the saddle, “Are you well?”
“No, I bloody well am not!” he snapped, trying to catch his breath. “Ride on. Catch the bloody buggers who took Catrin. I am only slowing you down.”
Reining his horse back down the hill, Henry watched as Sir Alban organized a guard of ten to remain with him, then shouted for the rest to follow him. Hooves thundered over the moors as the mass of mounted retainers galloped over the hill top and rode north.
Lifting his leg over the cantle, Henry almost fell from his horse even as one of his men dismounted to help him. With his hand on the sturdy man’s shoulder, he limped over to a nearby rock to sit down. “Water,” he gasped.
Hurrying to his saddle, the man at arms lifted his leather water bottle down from his pommel, then brought it back to his Duke. Henry drank the cool water down, feeling a little strength return to his body. However, the pain in his joints failed to recede, even off of the horse, and his exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him.
“Bloody cowards,” he muttered, his weakened body trembling. “You will not escape with her. Oh, Catrin.”
Still swamped by grief at the brutal death of his son, Henry, the Duke could not imagine losing Catrin, too. Still, if the thieving cowards crossed into Scotland, he knew the odds of never seeing her again rose to incredible proportions. The Scots, all of them ruthless and bloodthirsty bastards, would no doubt take their time in killing her. He was certain who was behind this atrocity – the Thorburn clan.
He glanced up at the sun. Nearly noon. He had assembled his soldiers the instant her guard returned to report Lady Catrin had been taken by Scottish arms men, and ordered her bodyguards imprisoned. When he had time, he would deal with them. “Bloody cowards,” he repeated, thinking of the men who failed to keep his daughter safe. Mentally planning their very painful execution, he watched the north, waiting, praying, hoping to see Sir Alban riding back triumphant – Catrin returned, the Scots slain.
Hours passed as he sweated under the torturous sun, nibbling on travel rations from his saddle bags, Henry watched and waited. His men lounged near their mounts, keeping a wary eye on the moors around them while talking in low tones. At last, he heard the sound of galloping hooves and stood, his backside aching from the hard rock he sat upon. Hopeful, he searched the band of riders, expecting to see Catrin among them.
She was not.
Sir Alban reined in and dismounted to bow. “Your Grace, the villains crossed the border with Lady Catrin. We dared not follow.”
Henry cursed bitterly. “They will kill her now.”
“Perhaps not. Ranulf Thorburn is said to be an honorable man. He may not have taken her to kill her, but to keep her from you. If he wanted his revenge by her death, why did he not kill her when he caught her?”
A tendril of hope wormed its way into the Duke’s heart. “Perhaps you are right. If you are, there may be ways I can get her back.”
“Exactly, Your Grace.”
Henry limped toward his horse. “Help me up.”
Sir Alban bent and laced his fingers together, offering them as a stirrup for the Duke to step into. Once he had his liege lord’s weight in them, he heaved the Duke up and into his saddle. Henry sat atop his mount, breathing hard, his eyes closed.
